I struggle with competitive birthing, I struggle with any competitions but particularly one that makes a woman feel like it’s possible to fail at doing something that’s as weird exceptionally beautiful and mental as giving birth.

I wanted to give birth like a hero, like an Olympian. I wanted to be that soul mumma who managed to not flinch during a home birth with essential oils in a spa while levitating.

Drug free.
Haha
I couldn’t even walk into a night club in my twenties drug free why did I think I could push a baby out?
So needless to say, I wasn’t successful at harmonic birthing, I was in a hospital screaming for drugs, they came but never soon enough.
As a result my second labour was more of a morphine session, in other words I loved every second of it, thought I was a queen, hugged nurses, requested massages and so on. I pretty much just lay there loving myself, blowing my doctor kisses while he pulled a baby out of my fanny. I actually even think I had a mild morphine withdrawal the next day.
When I fell pregnant with the twins I finally stopped kidding myself and booked my first C section. Hallelujah. People say C sections aren’t natural, weird because the decision to have one came very organically to me.
However at 34 weeks my stumpy torso gave in and I went into labour naturally.

I can’t even plan a C section properly!!

I was in so much agony that I told Billy I wasn’t going to wait for my mum to get here and jumped in the car to drive myself in.
I literally screamed the whole way to the hospital, my waters dribbling down my legs I was absolutely positive I would give birth on the side of the freeway to two babies and then die.
But I made it there, waddling down the labour ward screaming and yelling at everyone that “MY BABIES ARE COMING OUT!!!! MY LAST LABOUR WAS QUICK!!!! THEY ARE COMING!!!”
Billy arrived minutes later, he said he could hear me screaming from the elevator. He came to my side.
As he walked into the room that I had been plonked in at the same time the doctor arrived with his glove on. Of course by then I was crying in so much pain, he assumed I was 10cm dilated and was stressed about the twins positions as we were all prepped for the C section that we might not make it to and Rumi was still breach.
He shoved his hand right up my clacker, I didn’t even care.

He pulled it out said

“Constance, your not even 1 cm dilated” #stillnotafail.

It became clear to everyone that I didn’t have a very high pain threshold.
So as they were getting me ready for me C- section of course the nerves made me need to poo.

Billy had to walk me to the toilet and pull down my undies. I was thinking to myself “I thought a C section was the civilised option, I don’t really feel civilised holding my husbands hands while pushing out a poo.

Now the embarrassing part here is that while helping me up, Bill had a confused look on his head after copping an eye full of my business.
I bursts out with “Don’t look Bill!!!! It’s a big poo!!!! It’s a nervous poo!! Nerve poos are always huge!!”

So pissed off and in agony I finally got my drugs and went forth with my Caesarian.
I don’t feel like a failure, I’m certainly not a natural but how could anyone feel like a failure after creating life?

Competitive birthday can fuck right off, women are such incredible life giving, fertility goddesses.
There are no winners, no losers no hero’s and certainly no failures, just amazingness feminine

Warriors that deserve the ground before them kissed by virgins. 👊🏼
Con

Woooohoooo
I got my period today. ☺️
So now I have to do my monthly apologies for my behaviour in the 2 days leading up to my period.,
I’m sorry husband for getting angry at the sound of your breathing, I know you have to do it.
I’m sorry kids for getting angry at the 4 million questions you asked me yesterday, I’m your mum, it’s my job to pretend I care even when I don’t.
I’m sorry for pulling the finger instead of indicating.
I’m sorry for cracking the shits at the sound of anyone eating near me, that’s just mean.
I’m sorry to the man crossing the road REALLY slowly in front of my car.

You are not really a fuck wit, your probably just stoned, I was in a hormonal prison of frustration and anger.

You know what happens when there’s a natural disaster? The world gets into gear and helps, AID arrives, charities are formed, media gets on board, a bubble of hope is created. But sooner or later, the dust settles and the countries are left to live with the turmoil on their own.
That is what bringing home a baby is like. That small bundle of “joy” is like a mini natural disaster in your own home.

And every comes to help…

But eventually after a week or so the dust settles, the visitors die down, the in laws go back home and your man goes back to work.
And your left with a tiny natural disaster the size of a football wrapped up in a fluffy blanket.
And despite the roaring, protective, passionate love that vibrates through you for your little disaster, your life is left in turmoil.
The relentlessness. Is. Overwhelming.
And for the very first time, your partner in crime, the Clide to your Bonnie, your best mate, lover boy doesn’t understand. Your little journeys were separated the baby came out and spilt your roles in half.

And out of nowhere enters a competition that you never signed up for, who’s life is harder, the one who goes to work all day? Or the one who cares for the little fluffy football disaster zone?
I am amazed that any couples survive, I am in awe of women who spend an entire day with a screening football who’s welfare is so important to them that a simple baby spew can trigger an unbearable anxiety attack.
I am amazed by the men that go to work all day while exhausted and come home to a crying wife and screaming baby yet still remain patient and loving.
Aren’t we all just doing such a good job? And in such a lonely time isn’t it nice to know that we are far from alone?

We’ve breast fed four little humans, we sucked every bit of nutrition our body could spare and we selflessly handed it over to a baby, on one occasion we fed 2 babies at once. Can you imagine that? We filled up so much, we ached like hell and we did it all to nourish someone else.

And do you want to know the weird part? We didn’t care in the slightest if that baby was a boy or a girl, we didn’t even check. Because men women, boys, girls are all the same to us, we just want to feed babies.

Unfortunately, in our travels we haven’t been awarded the same equality. After all this hard work we are repaid with a prison sentence, locked away in this dungeon of a bra. Banished from the glory of Facebook, hidden from the warmth of the sun.
We are #angrynipples
And we won’t stop until we are desexualised in society, until we can walk a busy street without giving every penis a stiffy, without getting #arrestednipples
Take a stand Facebook
#freethenipple

Deep breath… Remember that time.., moment.
Despite what this picture may lead you to believe, it’s not my debut into country music..,

While I thought this image was lost in the abyss of unnecessary internet memories, like Jesus it has resurrected.

The 2005 mullet really was the gift that didn’t stop giving.
This was me, 11 years ago on Big Brother..
Wait for it.. I was the first kicked off. *cringe*
While I thought being a loud mouth swearing binge drinking realist was exactly what every big brother voter wanted I was sadly mistaken. Sigh
My time was brought to an end in a record breaking 10 days and interestingly while I thought I totally killed it in the house the shows publicists advice was limited to “don’t worry, they’ll all forget who you are soon, just lay low”
Well people did forget and I went back to washing hair as an apprentice hairdresser with bad hair for a living..
Only over the last few days this little pearl has popped back up like herpes.

Now the only people I really care about you you guys, the lovely ones who have take the time to read my shit, so I didn’t want you to feel lied to, vulnerable, dirty or betrayed if you saw via someone else.
So yes, it’s me, yes the hair was voluntary, yes I was the first housemate evicted on Big Brother 2005. No I never regretted it, many a laugh has been had since at my expense, if you can’t laugh at your own expense then your not aloud to laugh at anyone else’s and frankly that just not a world I want to live in.

To the me who came before,
To the me who left Art school to work in a fucking clothing shop. Don’t. You will get paid $6 an hour there for six months and hate it. The boss will insinuate that you are too fat to wear the clothes and the bosses wife will constantly accuse you of setting your little fat eyes in to her man. Just don’t.

Painting is forever, colours, drawing, shades, textures will never betray you, there is a different painting waiting for you to complete it every day of your life.

To the me who is sitting in the shower mortified after the guy you are in love with just came in and showed you a chewed up old tampon that his dog just took out of your bin and dropped in the lounge room in front of his loser friends while they watch the footy.

Don’t be embarrassed, women bleed, if we didn’t those stupid immature brats wouldn’t be here today, either would they’re football player idols or the cunt that leads this stupid country. If there is one thing in this world that shouldn’t embarrass you it’s the fact that you bleed. Get out of the shower, be proud.
To the me who had a couple too many abortions.

Good on you for not bringing unwanted babies into this world, you will not regret having these abortions. Now, stop getting pregnant to boys you have just met, this is not a contraception malfunction, I know how desperately you want a boyfriend but take it from the older you, boys would be much more impressed if you had a job or a house or something.. Your functioning ovaries are actually freaking them out. Now get on the pill.
To the me who thought reality TV was a good idea. It was, your a funny little fucker.
To the me who worried that that I was spoiling my baby.

You cannot spoil a baby, there is not enough love, cuddles or breast milk in this world to spoil 1 baby. Do not ever beat yourself up for doing what your hearts telling you to do.

To the me who left my husband and was sleeping with someone else within 2 weeks. Word it however you must, you are cheating, you prepared a cushy place to land when you left the father of your 2 kids. You may not feel guilty right now, you may have created a world that would distract you from what’s really happening but listen to me.

That guy you are with is a loser, you are better then him, he does not care about you or your children. You will get back together with your husband, he and you will have 2 more kids and you will pay and pay and pay for what you are doing now. You will feel every ounce of guilt and shame that you can’t feel now, you will feel it 10 times stronger then you ever imagined possible and it will not go away when you think you are done with.

Get up, go home. Say your sorry.
To the me who’s best friend walked in on her husband in bed with another woman.

I know your hurting, I know the pain is a different kind of pain and I know that only time will cure this.

Don’t put it on Facebook.

Putting it on Facebook along with photo’s of her feel good, it feels like pay back and all the kind comments might take the pain away for a moment.

But imagine the worst case scenario, imagine if that woman who is a mum was already so depressed, that’s why she found herself in this position, imagine if this public humiliation is the last straw, imagine if she had been thinking about killing herself and after you plastered her picture along with her crimes all over Fremantle she decided to do it.

Of course she didn’t, by all means she acted like she couldn’t give a fuck, but you saw it, that twinkle of sadness in her eye, don’t you know what guilt and shame feels like? Forget her, Turn to your 4 babies, babies are forever.

To the me who saw importance in bed time and bedrooms. Kissing, cuddling and sleeping together trumps bedtime and bedrooms. They don’t want to be alone and you don’t want to be alone. It’s not rocket science.